Searching in the Wrong Place

Lórien Sequera on Flickr

The ocean stirs itself to send tides to kiss the shore,
the way I lay awake in bed past midnight, mind racing,
and pulsing with the memory of you.

Perhaps if I think of how you used to bury your lips in my neck,
wherever you are now, you’d feel them tingle with longing.
You’ll touch them to the back of her hand and wince at the newness of it.

How strange it feels to claw at unfamiliar skin, expecting to find old comfort.
And as she collapses, chest heaving on top of you, you’ll wrap your arms around her and will yourself to feel.

You told her you’d make love to her, but as you lay there, tears rushing to your eyes, you realize you lied. It was as gentle and thrilling as it was exquisite,
but it was also taken all too soon.

Rest, my broken love. Catch your breath and lick the scabs you’ve pulled apart. Whoever said it would be that easy? Whoever told you, you were ready?

Passion comes quick, but love comes slow. Perhaps by the time we’ve finished counting the lashes on the sleeping soul laying next to us, we’ll know:

If this is love or just for show,
If they can stay, and we can finally let go.

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